


Between Mars and Venus

by leaveanote



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Ancient Rome, Friendship/Love, Gladiators, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was a brave young gladiator until a match left him wounded. To spare his life, Emperor Mycroft gave him to his brother, Sherlock, who never knew why he had accepted John in the first place. They grow closer, over time, and one day Sherlock lets down his guard and lets a secret slip - he's never had a pleasant sexual experience. </p>
<p>John wants to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Mars and Venus

**Author's Note:**

> Some gladiatorial terms used throughout (I apologize again if they’re used inaccurately):
> 
> munera: used to refer sometimes to gladiatorial matches. Singular: munus
> 
> rudis: symbol of emancipation given to certain gladiators after victory.
> 
> hasta: spear
> 
> pugio: dagger
> 
> Iugulo!: “Kill him!”
> 
> Cataphractarius: heavily protected/armored gladiators

“For the last time, little brother, wake up!”

Sherlock rolled over grumpily, clamping his eyes shut.

“It’s _your_ tournament, Mycroft, I don’t need to be there!”

“You are the heir to the Empire, Sherlock. Of course you need to be there.”

“Perpetual heir. You’re never going to die, Mycroft. And if I ever become emperor, I would outlaw gladiator fights, or at least make them more interesting. Every single _munus_ is the same.” He pulled the pillow over his face. “They duel. There is blood. And either I get splattered with viscera in the heat of it all or I get to watch my sainted brother elect to save the weaker one’s life.” He groaned. “I don’t have to go to _all_ of them, why this one?”

“Because you’ve refused to go since your coming-of-age. It’s _time_. And just because they are the same does not mean they are not important.” Mycroft pulled the pillow off. Sherlock thought he caught an odd gleam in Mycroft’s eye, but it was too brief to be certain. “And it is of the utmost importance you are to be there – _and_ at the resultant banquet. You know the public likes to see you at banquets.”

“I hate banquets. One does not need to consume that much food.” He shot his brother’s pudging stomach a pointed look at this, making Mycroft shift rather uncomfortably.

“That’s enough sass out of you. Up you get.” The emperor of Rome strode out of his little brother’s bedroom, long violet cape billowing.

Sherlock heaved a great sigh of boredom. He lazed out of bed, pulling on his striped purple tunic – the dress of the second brother.

The morning, as it always did, passed in a blur of breakfasts and bowing servants. His brother sat at the head of the table, being fed his grapes and boar sausage by his doting female serfs, while Sherlock picked at his food, disinterested.

They strode into the Colosseum with their guards surrounding them, the boiling sun and screaming crowd blinding Sherlock’s senses. In that brief instant of blindness, the other senses took over, the smell of stale dirty blood and grime-coated bodies finding their way to his nostrils. He immediately noticed that the smell of bodies overpowered the smell of blood and waste a bit stronger today.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, settling into the small throne beside his brother’s ornate one.

“What’s that?” Mycroft called over his shoulder, signaling the announcer to begin.

“Why is there a larger crowd today, obviously?” Sherlock repeated, but the contenders had stepped out, causing the screams of the audience to drown out the question, and rendering it pointless. Sherlock knew.

“Our returning champion!” shouted the announcer. “This man has fought in four _munera_ every year for the past seven years – the greatest number a gladiator is allotted annually – and has emerged victorious from every single one! Not even a scratch! Let his slight frame not fool you – this champion feasts on the hearts of men! Eight times he has been awarded _rudis_ , and eight times he has chosen to stay and fight! I give you – _Moriarty!”_

The small man pranced around the arena. From so high up in the stands in the imperial box, Sherlock couldn’t make out the features, but he knew Moriarty was cackling, drinking in the attention, as he always did. Sherlock edged forward in his seat, thinking that today might not be so bad after all – Moriarty was his favorite gladiator to watch. Although every fight ended the same – the man bathed in the rich warm blood of his foe – Moriarty never failed to exact a creative death, which made the event less dull.

“And his competitor – John!”

The announcer went on to describe how this was only John’s second match ever, how he survived his first primarily by accident, and other various statistics, but Sherlock let them waft through his head to be filed in his brain without addressing them fully. He was staring at John.

“Brother…this is not a fair fight,” Sherlock muttered. “Usually we have champions from other matches pitted against Moriarty, not children. What are you playing at?”

His brother’s face was cold and firm, but Sherlock saw the worry etched into it.

“He’s not that young,” Mycroft said under his breath. Almost imperceptibly, he sighed, biting his lip. “He’s just about your age.”

The match began. John stood, stalwart with his _hasta_. He was skilled, Sherlock could tell in the first moments. He managed his footwork excellently, and wielded the long instrument with a practiced touch. Even at this distance, Sherlock could tell he wasn’t trembling.

“Every other opponent you’ve pitted against Moriarty has been at least on their eighth match. Why is this John fighting him?” Sherlock demanded. Moriarty was laughing harder, darting about the arena with nothing but a small _pugio_. Sherlock’s jaw stiffened at the weapon choice. Moriarty usually wielded a sword. He was clearly trying to give himself a bit of a challenge. The audience roared as Moriarty exposed his weapon – they knew he was also giving them a better show.

“There’s something about John,” Mycroft said. His voice was so hushed only Sherlock could hear it above the vicious jeers of the crowd. “He’s not like the others.”

Moriarty hadn’t struck yet. He continued to prance around John, but slowly, he was closing in, forming a tighter circle. He faked harsh jabs towards the stockier man – boy, really – with the small blade, but refrained from any real attempts at violence. John fended him off easily, and Sherlock was faintly pleased to see he didn’t seem to be getting cocky. John knew what Moriarty was doing.

He was playing with his food.

The audience knew it too, rumbling with cheers and jeers and sharp laughter.

“You wanted him out of the lifestyle, one way or another,” Sherlock realized.

Mycroft blinked rather hard.

“This is to be his only battle.”

Sherlock wanted to contest his brother, to stand up for John and say he’d been underestimated, but then Moriarty pounced.

The compact man lunged into the circle John had been protecting with his spear. He broke into it for just one moment, but long enough for the members of the crowd to stomp their feet in eager anticipation. John’s body tensed, focused.

Moriarty lunged again, this time slashing at John’s armor – which was of the cheapest make, unlike Moriarty’s thin but expensive metal. Moriarty slashed again, and again, never piercing the joints of the armor to break skin, but twitching the dagger at John’s throat, his chest, his stomach just below his ribs, his groin. As he spun around John, who bravely caught every slash with his spear, Moriarty looked directly up at the imperial box and Sherlock saw that he was delighted. His face, disconcertingly handsome, was contorted with unbridled glee. Sherlock realized that with every slash of his dagger on John’s armor, he was marking his territory, toying, teasing.

John remained in control for a long time, longer even than most of Moriarty’s past competitors, and they had been far more expert. Mycroft’s words began to make sense – there was something of a fighter in this boy. Not only a fighter though, there was both the wisdom of a trained soldier and the courage of a man who had nothing to lose.

Sherlock found himself on the edge of his seat as John struck out, only to be dodged easily by a giggling Moriarty. Again and again John aimed with his spear, every move parried easily away, until Moriarty’s dagger flashed, and there was red mist in the air.

The audience exploded with encouraging yells as John clutched at the wound. It was on the side of his neck – a shade deeper and it would have ended him, but Moriarty was still playing.

John lashed out, again and again, and suddenly there was the sound of scraping metal and an eerie silence as Moriarty stopped laughing.

John’s spear had abraded his cheek, just below his eye. The announcer was silent in awe for a moment before calling to the crowd that this was the first time – ever – Moriarty had been injured in a match.

Suddenly, Moriarty was laughing harder, gleefully, attacking harder and harder. Sherlock’s fingers were, oddly enough, gripping the sides of his seat.

John’s cry when the dagger drove into his shoulder was audible even over the roars of the crowd.

Moriarty dug it in deeply, slowly, until John’s body was shaking visibly.

The crowd hushed, a collective sadistic agreement, so that John’s gasps of agony echoed throughout the arena, the greatest humiliation to be afforded a gladiator.

Moriarty quieted as well, but the delight on his face was apparent. He twisted the dagger cruelly into the flesh, causing John to fall onto his knees.

Sherlock registered that his own heart was pounding faster. It always did during a Moriarty victory, but something seemed off about it this time. He resolved to consider it later. Moriarty had turned to the imperial box. It was time for Mycroft to make a decision.

These decisions usually needed no waiting – Mycroft customarily voted to kill Moriarty’s foes. The crowd was vibrating with screams of _iugula! iugula!_ The arena was thick with bloodlust.

Sherlock turned to his brother just in time to catch Mycroft hiss something that sounded like _play along_.

“My brother,” boomed Mycroft’s voice throughout the arena, “entered manhood one fortnight ago!”

The crowd murmured with confusion, then exploded into routine cheers for the young prince. They had already celebrated – a _munus_ then as well – so they were bewildered, but not foolish enough to neglect cheering.

Sherlock, on the other hand, saw directly through his brother’s rather transparent plan immediately.

“He desires a manservant.” Mycroft extended his upturned thumb, signifying John’s life be spared. “Thank you, Moriarty, for championing another fight. Your next opponent will be brought out after the next act.” Sherlock tried not to flinch as Moriarty yanked out the dagger, hardly disgruntled, already raring for the next battle. John weakly fought to stand, blood spilling out of him. All the arena’s eyes were fixed on Sherlock. Mycroft turned to him with a meaningful look. “I hereby bestow the spoils of this match to you, in honor of your coming of age.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, knowing exactly what to say.

“Is not my brother the greatest, most beneficent of rulers?” he cried. The crowd roared in obedient approval, though it was clear they were already raring for the next fight. “The feast and _munus_ in my honor were not enough – he grants my wish of a manservant as well!” Sherlock stood, drawing the audience’s focus back to him. “Let us all be thankful for the mercy he has shown this spoil. May he be as merciful to any of us if we should sin.” At this, the crowd erupted in honest appreciation, remembering that the Holmes’ were not known to be merciful rulers, and this gesture spoke of hope for any of their wrongdoings.

Mycroft released them to prepare for the next act.

“You can go now,” he said to Sherlock, privately.

“You dragged me out of bed to save the life of a gladiator?” Sherlock asked incredulously. “ _Why?_ ”

Mycroft sighed.

“You’re a man now, Sherlock.”

“So?”

Highly ranked officials were making their way into the imperial box to talk to Mycroft.

“So – so listen to your brother! The _emperor_.”

“ _The emperor_ ,” Sherlock mocked under his breath, but he made his way out anyway.

“I’ll see you at the feast!” Mycroft called. Sherlock nodded distractedly.

The rest of the evening passed in the usual blur. Sherlock retreated into his room, where he designed experiments on the efficiency of chariot races in his mind palace until it was time for the feast. He smiled at the populace, dined, and hurried back to his room afterwards, eager to complete his breakthrough on a better chariot wheel.

And there he was, standing by the bed.

Sherlock hadn’t actually fully realized that Mycroft meant for him to _have_ the boy.

John stood, smiling at his new master.

“Evening, my lord,” John said respectfully, bowing slightly.

Sherlock seized him up. Standing, bowing, all courteous, but stiff. Partly because he doesn’t know me, partly because of his shoulder – should he be here already? Should he not still be in the infirmary? From this distance Sherlock could tell that the wound wasn’t as deep as he thought initially; it _had_ been a rather small dagger, but then John was rather petite and so it was still nothing to be trifled with. Up close, he noted that the boy was conventionally handsome, faintly white blond hair curled close to his head, striking blue eyes and a gentle mouth. His frame was stocky but strong and lithe, and he didn’t seem quite as young up close. There was something almost ancient in his eyes, something that Sherlock couldn’t place. What interested Sherlock the most, though, was the smile. It was honest, and relieved, but also somewhat regretful, with a degree of resentment and what seemed like hopelessness.

All this stirred something in Sherlock that he did not want to deal with at the moment.

“Evening,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “Nice to meet you.”

John cracked a bit of a grin at this, but bowed again.

“The pleasure is mine, my lord. I owe you my life. I am yours.”

Those last words resonated strangely in Sherlock’s head, and he suddenly wanted very much to be in his mind palace.

“You owe me nothing.” He began to undress for bed. John moved to help him, which irritated him, but not entirely for the usual reasons. “I prefer to undress myself, thank you. You should rest your shoulder.” The last sentence came out quieter, as if he didn’t want Mycroft to hear, although Mycroft slept many hallways away.

“My shoulder is fine, my lord.”

Lying. Well, of course.

“May I see the wound?” Sherlock asked suddenly. He had dropped his tunic on the floor, but hadn’t dressed in sleepwear yet. Though that left only cloth wrapped around his waist, it seemed natural. John didn’t flinch.

“Of course, my lord.”

“Stop calling me that,” Sherlock muttered. He moved aside the loose fabric of John’s shirt – gladiator armor gone forever, with only servant clothes remaining. He undid the bandages gently, vaguely aware of John’s breath on his cheek.

“Apologies,” John murmured.

The wound was large and swollen, but it had been cleaned expertly. Mycroft had been thorough. No residual blood left on the bandages.

“You’ll heal nicely,” Sherlock commented, placing the bandages back in place. Something dark crossed John’s face, but Sherlock’s own curiosity startled him, and he chose to ignore it. He realized something else, something he _could_ talk about. “Did my brother tell you where you were to sleep?”

John’s face pulled back into respectful cheer.

“No, sir. I assume with the rest of the servants, though.”

Their quarters were cramped enough already, and the heat would make the wound distressing, Sherlock knew. Though the quarters for gladiators were far worse, Sherlock could not use that fact to justify condemning John to the sweaty, grime-coated servant quarters. It would also prolong healing time and potentially cause infection, which would impede John’s new duties – yes, that’s what he could tell Mycroft.

Sherlock swept over to his bed and tossed John two of his many feather pillows and one of his sheets.

“On the couch,” he commanded, gesturing to the lounge in the corner.

John’s eyes widened, his mouth gaping. Sherlock knew that the couch of a prince was more luxury than John had ever dreamed of, and for some reason, it made him feel warm inside that he was granting John such luxury.

“I-I really couldn’t, my lord!”

“What did I say about calling me that?” Sherlock donned his nightwear and flounced into bed. “Now, blow out the lamp and go to bed.”

John did as he was told, murmuring _thank you, thank you_. Sherlock peeked over at him through his arms just in time to see his new servant, in naught but his small cloth pants, snuggle into the couch, sighing in comfort.

For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock went to sleep with a smile on his face.

*

From then on, they went everywhere together. Sherlock initially thought he’d be annoyed with it – indeed, he expected to be annoyed, as he usually despised company – but John slid into his life so properly he caught himself wondering how he ever got on without him.

John brought Sherlock food when he was immersed in his mind palace, even fed it to him when Sherlock refused to leave. John became tired so early – the gladiators always slept early during training, to be up before the sun – that though he initially tried to fight it and stay up to Sherlock’s ungodly hours, he couldn’t help but drowse, and Sherlock was then forced to go to bed at a reasonable hour so John could sleep. Sherlock simply felt healthier, more human, with John in his life.

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time someone besides Mycroft had actually _contested_ him, either.

“So – new chariot wheels then?” John repeated, scrubbing at one of Sherlock’s togas. Sherlock was lounging by the riverbed, bouncing ideas off John.

“Yes. Smaller, but thicker.”

“If only you could dream of a way to make the chariot move _without_ the horses,” John sighed, hanging the clothes up to dry. “If the wheels could move by themselves. I suppose that’s only magic, though.”

“Magic is merely science we don’t understand yet,” Sherlock muttered, and began to devise a way for wheels to actually move on their own…a sort of… _machine_ …and he never would’ve, without John.

*

One night, nearly six months into the arrangement, the familiar vague discomfort in John’s smile became too provoking. Sherlock had to comment.

“You miss it.”

He was already in bed, John about to turn out the lights. He paused.

“What’s that?”

“You miss being a gladiator.”

John froze. They had managed to avoid this topic throughout the entirety of their time together. Sherlock knew it was very deliberate.

John opened his mouth to deny it, reflexively, but no one could lie to Sherlock, and John learned that a long time ago.

“It was the only thing I knew.”

“You loved it.”

“I had to!” John sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and set his head in his hands. “I was sold at a young age. I don’t remember anything else.”

“It was exciting. And now you’re washing clothes and cleaning up after a prat.”

John smiled warmly, his real full smile that Sherlock only saw occasionally.

“You’re the heir to the throne.”

“Mycroft would never let me rule. Apparently I don’t _care_ enough. And that doesn’t keep me from being a prat.” Sherlock shifted closer, staring intently into John’s eyes. “You miss the blood. And the excitement.” He watched the way John’s mouth twitched. “You resent my brother, don’t you? For – for sparing your life.”

John’s lips tightened briefly, and a certain darkness flickered over his eyes. His hand went involuntarily to his shoulder, where the scar was still raw.

“I had been in training for nearly twenty years, Sherlock. I was bred to believe that my life would end in the arena or, by some miracle, I would emerge victorious.” He gave a wry grin. “I was always a servant. I was a slave. I just never expected to be the kind that washed dishes.”

Sherlock did not know what to say, and John noticed.

“But it’s okay now! It’s different now! I’m happy here,” he said, reaching reflexively for Sherlock’s hand, then pulling away. He grinned sheepishly – because Sherlock dressed himself, though they had caught glimpses of each other naked, they did not touch frequently, especially not alone in the bedchamber. “Really. I am.”

“Still, something’s missing,” Sherlock said quietly.

John hesitated.

“Maybe? I’m not sure. I – I feel like something always has, I suppose. I _am_ happy here, though.”

Sherlock knew that he meant it, but there was something unfulfilled about his expression. It lessened with every day, but it had been half a year and it hadn’t faded altogether.

“What did you and the other men do every day?”

John stretched and lay sprawled at the foot of the bed – Sherlock’s bed was quite broad. He realized he had never asked John about his life before the fight with Moriarty, not once.

“We learned fighting styles, mostly. All different sorts – you know the kinds already.”

“Yes, but I never concerned myself with how they were learned before.”

John grinned.

“It was awful. Training nearly sixteen hours a day some days. We’d learn new techniques every week, perfecting them. Then we’d review them all at the beginning of the month.” He lay flat on his back, stretching his arms up to the ceiling. “Every muscle would be abused so thoroughly. But it’d be worth it, you know, if it saved you in the arena.”

“What was your most hated technique to learn?” Sherlock asked. He curled his knees to his chest, wrapping his sleepwear around him and his arms around his legs.

“The month we had to learn about _cataphractarius_ ,” John groaned without hesitation. “You know, the heavily armored fighters? Even though only a few of us would ever grow to fight with that kind of armor, we had to learn it anyway. It was _brutal_! And the _heat_ when you’re wearing it!” John shuddered. “Makes for quite a spectacle, that kind of match, though. Remember? They had it for your coming-of-age.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the memory, which he had been suppressing for quite some time now.

“I was a bit distracted at that particular _munera_ , actually.”

John turned to look at him curiously.

“But it was for you.”

Sherlock chuckled darkly.

“It was for Rome. And so was my brother’s…present.” Sherlock had never talked to anyone about that night, except to threaten Mycroft that he’d burn down the kitchen if he tried it again. But John’s innocently inquisitive eyes made him want to keep talking. Wordlessly, John egged him on. Sherlock felt himself, for perhaps the first time since that very night, blushing. “Well. Fine then.” He knew John was sworn to secrecy on literal pain of death – he also knew John had no one else to tell, anyway. “My brother decided that since I was of age to be a man, it was time for me to – become a man.” John’s eyes widened incredulously, but he remained quiet, letting Sherlock talk. “Just before the match, he brought a girl over to me and told me she was to make me a man that evening.” Sherlock shuddered slightly. “As if he was doing me a _favor_.”

“And – and it didn’t go well?”

Sherlock was rapidly turning a deeper shade of pink, but he laughed darkly.

“I hated it. She had to do a considerable amount of work on me to get me so much as ready, if – if you know what I mean. And then it was just rather uncomfortable. She was lovely, no doubt, but she was just bouncing all over the place and I kept – kept losing my manhood, and at the end of it she was perfectly pleasant and told me she’d tell Mycroft it went well and not to worry. Spent the entire match predicting it would happen that way and it did.” Sherlock was the color of a sunset now, deeply pinkened, but it felt oddly good to say, especially when he knew it was safe with John.

“I’m sorry,” John said quietly. Sherlock saw the question he was too respectful to ask on his lips.

“Go on. Ask it.”

John swallowed, his curiosity clearly getting the better of him.

“So – so that was it? No good times in bed?”

“I wasn’t really keen on trying again after that, no.” Sherlock said. “And I’ve never really felt the need.” He read John’s disbelieving look easily. “I assume you can’t understand that.”

“Well, no!” John exclaimed, a boyish natural grin on his face. “I mean, yes, after an experience like that, but Sherlock – sex is amazing! I’m so sorry you’re older than me and you’ve never had it go well for you!”

“Who’ve you been with, then?” Sherlock threw at him, somewhat accusatorily. It was John’s turn to blush.

“Couple girls, when we had leave, one of the girls back home being my first, but us trainees went at it pretty regularly.”

Of course. Sherlock had known that while training was in session, young gladiators-to-be thought nothing of sharing a bed every so often. He had just never quite imagined his servant to be one of them.

“So it wasn’t a great issue, for you, then, it just sort of… _was_ ,” Sherlock observed.

“Was…fantastic!” John finished, laughing. “Oh gods, Sherlock, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s perfectly natural.” He caught sight of Sherlock’s humiliated face and stopped laughing immediately, which made Sherlock feel even worse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I – it was just different for me, that’s all.”

Sherlock didn’t entirely know why, but he was filling with jealousy and irritation and something sort of desperate and hot, and the corners of his eyes were burning, slightly wet.

John looked horrified, and shifted closer on the bed.

“Oh – don’t – oh Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ – ” and he was kissing Sherlock’s face, gently, respectfully, his soft lips cooling his master’s hot cheeks, his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

With a start, Sherlock realized it.

John wanted to show him.

He pulled back slightly. John’s eyes gazed into his, a small smile on his face. In that small smile, Sherlock knew, John was asking permission. Sherlock began to wonder if this is why Mycroft gave John to him in the first place, but then he became aware of John’s warm fingers on his cheek and John’s breath on his lips and he realized that whatever this was, at the core of it, had nothing to do with Mycroft. This had been growing for months, both of them cultivating it, perhaps unconsciously, though perhaps not entirely unconsciously.

Sherlock leaned forward, heart pounding. He fought to get the memory of that girl, grotesquely bouncing on him, out of his head, but then John closed the space between them easily with his lips and Sherlock forgot her.

Never had Sherlock been kissed like this. John smiled into it, smoothing his master’s hair back, caressing Sherlock’s jawline, stroking Sherlock’s tongue with his.

“You’re so handsome,” John breathed.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock snarled, feeling his ears turn pink, and John chuckled lightly into the next kiss. His lips moved firmly on Sherlock’s, but patiently. Somehow, John maneuvered himself into Sherlock’s lap, wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s waist. John’s body was warm on his. Sherlock could feel how strong the man was, how his taut trained muscles shifted, lithe, beneath his skin.

John tightened his legs around Sherlock’s waist, snuggling himself deeper into Sherlock’s lap. He pulled aside the cloth of Sherlock’s sleepwear, kissing the hollow where Sherlock’s neck met his shoulder. He sucked gently on the tender flesh there, sending tingles down his master’s spine.

Sherlock found himself gripping at John’s back, pulling their bodies closer together, exploring his servant’s body for the first time. He ran his fingers through John’s soft hair, down his sturdy back – and then he hesitated for a moment, but John rubbed against him invitingly, and Sherlock took the cheeks of John’s ass in his hands, and squeezed, hard.

John let out a low groan of arousal, and as Sherlock kissed him fervently on the mouth, clenching at the supple cheeks of his ass, Sherlock became aware that he himself was very, very hard.

He had never been this way before, and he gasped slightly. John pulled back, concerned, but then he read Sherlock’s expression and his face softened once again. He glanced down at the growing tent in Sherlock’s nightclothes.

“May I?” he asked. The candles were the only source of light in the room now that night had fallen completely, and John’s face was impossibly irresistible in the warm glow – it always had been, Sherlock realized, that’s why he never had liked to look. He nodded, pulse racing almost uncomfortably fast.

John eased his master’s nightwear off him, leaving Sherlock completely naked. John leaned back and took in the sight, biting his lower lip.

“Is – is there a problem?” Sherlock asked. He tried to be authoritative, but his voice broke. He was embarrassed and excited all at once, and still rather terrified it would fail miserably again and he’d lose John forever – not that he could ever really lose him, but he’d lose _this_ , the connection they had.

“You really are incredibly beautiful, Sherlock,” John murmured. He gave his master a reassuring smile and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. John lowered his mouth without warning and gave Sherlock’s length a tentative lick. He eased the foreskin down, exposing the sensitive head, and then took the shaft full in his mouth.

With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock’s jaw dropped. John’s mouth was warm and tight around him, like nothing he had ever felt before. He hadn’t ever thought he wanted this, hadn’t ever thought it could feel good, but John’s lips tightened expertly around his length and moved up and down steadily, and the new sensation sent delicious heat coursing through Sherlock’s body. He could feel himself shaking, relaxing, trusting John entirely. John’s hands smoothed up his naked torso, leaning him backwards onto the bed cushions, so he was lying nearly flat, his head propped up on pillows so he could watch John’s head bobbing around his length.

John pulled back for a minute to look at Sherlock questioningly, his hands taking over.

“Does this feel good? I’m a bit out of practice,” he admitted.

Sherlock didn’t like to think about him practicing at all.

“Don’t stop,” he insisted, through gritted teeth.

John smiled and turned back obediently, his compliance making Sherlock even harder. His lips were soft, his mouth warm and tight, and he managed to take Sherlock’s entire length into him with nearly every movement. He stroked the insides of Sherlock’s thighs, fingers playing with Sherlock’s balls. He kept up the quick pace of his mouth for quite some time, until he pulled away, struggling slightly for breath. John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and Sherlock felt his arousal grow, though he didn’t want to make John uncomfortable.

“Is it too much? Is it hurting your shoulder?” he asked, fighting to not betray how desperately he wanted John to keep touching him.

“No, no, nothing like that!” John reassured him. John was blushing slightly now too, but still smiling, confident and caring. “Look.” And for the first time, Sherlock noticed that the cloth between John’s thighs was rising. John pulled off his own clothes, revealing his own throbbing erection.

For some reason, it hadn’t even occurred to Sherlock that he himself had the capability to exact arousal in someone else, even now. He bit his lip, his own arousal increasing impossibly at the sight of John’s strong body, of John’s thick erection.

“This is because of you,” John said, his voice tender but colored with need. “You make me hard.”

The tense startled Sherlock, even in his eager anticipation. Not _you made me hard_ , as in _you just did_ , but _you make me hard_. Ongoing.

“And I have before, then, yes?”

John blushed deeper.

“Maybe, maybe not!” he said defiantly. He took a deep breath and smiled again, somewhat shyly. “Maybe I’ve been wanting to know what you feel like inside me for a while now.”

Sherlock couldn’t do anything but nod, his body burning with a need he hadn’t known he was capable of.

“Just – just a minute though,” John said, sitting back and spreading his legs. He was still flushed, but Sherlock could tell he knew what he was doing. John slipped his own fingers into his mouth. He sucked on them, making them as slick as Sherlock’s cock, staring straight into his master’s eyes. When they were dripping wet, he reached between his own legs, below his erection, and slid them into his entrance.

Sherlock felt himself writhing on the sheets, heart pounding with desire, with actual jealousy for John’s fingers as he watched them slide in and out of John’s ass, stretching him.

“It’s been a while,” John explained, his breathing rough, pushing his fingers as deep as they would go, “and I want you to be able to have me as long as you need.” Just when Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore, John removed his fingers and straddled Sherlock’s hips. John leaned down and kissed Sherlock deeply as he pushed himself down on his master’s cock. Sherlock watched as the head of his own cock disappeared into John’s ass, as John lowered himself slowly until Sherlock was buried in him.

Sherlock’s fingernails dug into John’s thighs at the feeling, at the brilliantly impossible tightness of the man’s ass around his rock-hard erection. John moaned as he took Sherlock’s cock all the way to the hilt, so that he was sitting on Sherlock’s lap.

“See?” John murmured, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. He kissed Sherlock’s mouth. “Doesn’t that feel good?”

“ _Move_ ,” Sherlock ordered, hoping it didn’t sound too much like a plea.

John grinned somewhat arrogantly – _I told you so!_ but began to ride Sherlock hard. Hands on his master’s chest, John thrust himself onto Sherlock’s cock roughly. He bit his lip and rocked faster and faster.

In an almost unconscious motion Sherlock lifted a hand off from clutching at the sheets and spanked the cheek of John’s ass fiercely. John moaned, his ass clenching tighter around Sherlock’s erection.

“You like it,” Sherlock growled. “You like my cock. You like getting fucked by me. You’ve wanted my cock in your ass for a long time.”

John’s breathing quickened, his fingernails digging into Sherlock’s chest now. Sherlock spanked him again, on the other cheek, making John clench even tighter, sending waves of pleasure coursing through his master.

“Faster, John,” Sherlock muttered, his teeth gritted again. “Ride me faster. I know that I’m the best you ever had. I know you like my cock. I know you _love_ my cock.” His palm smacked hard on John’s ass again and John cried out, doing his best to comply. “Now prove it.”

John’s body was tense and tight. He took in Sherlock’s cock as deep and as fast as he could manage, his head flung back in unbridled agonizing rapture. Sweat made his tan body glisten, his thighs twitching around Sherlock’s hips. He moved to grab at his own neglected cock, which Sherlock noticed was dripping desperate precum, but Sherlock swatted his hand away.

“No. Ride me.”

With a frustrated moan, John obeyed, grinding down on Sherlock’s cock as hard as he could. Sherlock watched his man’s frantic body, his face beautifully lost in desire, and Sherlock felt something he couldn’t remember ever feeling before. Heat was pooling in him, sharp and intense and incredible, and he knew he was about to finish. He saw hazily that John knew too, and was grinding down as hard as he could, trying to bring himself to climax though obediently refraining from touching himself.

Sherlock moaned, gripped John’s waist with one hand and John’s cock with the other, and took over. He thrust up into John’s tight ass as hard as he could, stroking John’s length as tenderly and firmly as he could manage. John’s mouth fell open and he gasped harshly as Sherlock fucked him fast and deep, thrusting into him eagerly.

And then Sherlock’s body thrashed as orgasm coursed through him. He called out John’s name, probably too loudly but he couldn’t care. Ecstasy lit every nerve in his body on fire, and he thrust into John passionately. In the midst of it he felt John release over his fist, John’s ass clenching down even impossibly tighter, intensifying his orgasm as he filled that strong ass full of so much cum.

Sherlock fell back onto the cushions, drained and almost numb from pleasure. Panting, John pulled himself off of Sherlock’s softening cock. He sat beside his master, trembling, until Sherlock opened his arms.

“Come here. Obviously,” Sherlock muttered, but he gave a faint grin. John’s face lit up and he lay down gratefully in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock held him close, feeling their hearts pound together. He pressed a kiss into John’s sweaty brow. “You were correct. That _was_ fantastic.”

John shook his head.

“I’ve never had sex like that before.” He looked up, and Sherlock knew he was telling the truth. “It was so different with you.” Sherlock crooked a somewhat worried eyebrow. “Better! Oh, _better_ , of course, of _course,_ come on, you knew that!” John laughed. “Sex was always incredible, but with you it felt – it felt – ”

“Right,” Sherlock said, just above a whisper. “It felt right.”

John smiled up at him, and Sherlock pulled him closer to his chest, intertwining their damp limbs together in the cool air.

They lay there, breathing each other’s breath, holding each other, for a long time.

“I – I’ll get the lamp then?” John asked presently.

“In a minute,” Sherlock said, not releasing his grip. He realized what John was being tentative about. “And you’re sleeping in my bed tonight. I think I can safely say we’re past the couch.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly – ”

“Don’t be silly.”

John smiled up at him again and placed a kiss on his lips, and Sherlock’s heart swelled with love and pride.

John’s smile no longer was missing anything.

“What?” John asked, worried. Sherlock’s face had fallen.

“I think this means I owe Mycroft a thank you,” Sherlock grumbled. His idiot brother had known what he was doing after all.

John chuckled, and burrowed his face into Sherlock’s chest.

“I’m all yours, Sherlock,” he said sleepily. “All yours.”

“Always.”

“Always,” John agreed.

“And I’m yours,” Sherlock said, realizing this fully for the first time. “I’m all yours.”

He could feel John smiling brightly into his chest and hugged him close.

“I can’t believe how lucky I am,” John murmured, half-asleep, “I could’ve been given to a monstrous emperor, some horrible man who mistreated me.”

“Or my brother, which would’ve been even worse.”

John laughed softly, stroking Sherlock’s cheek.

“Much worse. But instead, I am yours.” He sighed contentedly. “And you – you are the best man, and the most _human_ human being I’ve ever met, and I’ll always be here for you.”

For some reason, the words warmed Sherlock’s entire body, and he slept more peacefully than he ever had.

**Epilogue**

Suffice it to say that religion did not persecute same-sex marriage until centuries after Sherlock’s time, and Mycroft wore all too many feathers at the ceremony.

Though Sherlock never ascended to the throne, their privately adopted son became one of the finest rulers Rome ever saw.

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Like what you read? This fic comes from my prompt-based Johnlocksmut blog, johnlocksmut.tumblr.com -- check me out, check out other fics, and make a request if you'd like!


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